Poseidon's Arrow

A

“It was on account of Eberson’s condition. His extremities were bloated, and his skin was blistered and blackened. The bloating isn’t unusual in a drowning victim, but the blackened skin was odd. We found a dead sailor aboard the freighter in Chile who exhibited even more extreme characteristics. Chilean authorities say he died from thermal damage believed to be caused by microwave irradiation.”

“The same cause,” A

“Aside from falling asleep on a microwave ante

“I’d like to hear it.”

“There’s been a number of crowd-control devices fielded in the past few years that use microwave beams to lightly burn the skin of people in its path. Our Army has deployed one they call the Active Denial System, or ADS, often referred to as the ‘pain ray.’ The systems are not meant to be lethal, but we’ve learned that simple modifications could make them deadly.”

“Could they be used at sea?” Loren asked.

“They are currently truck-mounted, so they could easily be placed on the deck of a ship. The ADS system has a range of up to seven hundred meters. People inside a ship would be immune, but anyone on deck or accessible through a window, such as on the bridge, would be susceptible. A powerful enough design might even damage the communications systems. It’s also possible they might simply use it against a larger vessel as cover for an armed boarding party.”

“You think something like that was used on both vessels?” A

“They could have used it to stun the crew of the Tasmanian Star to steal its monazite,” Pitt said, “and against the Cuttlefish to kill Heiland, Ma

“They would have obtained the model directly from the Cuttlefish if Heiland hadn’t blown up the boat,” A

“We’re searching, but haven’t found anything yet.”

“Then we don’t seem to be any closer to identifying who these people are.”

Pitt gave her a sly look. “On the contrary, I intend to find out within the week.”

“But you have no idea where to find them,” Loren said.

“Actually,” Pitt said, “I intend to let them find me. Just like baiting a trap with cheese to lure the mouse, only our cheese is a rock called monazite.”

He pulled a world map out of his coat pocket and spread it on the table.

“Hiram Yaeger and I were intrigued by the Tasmanian Star’s hijacking, so we conducted a search of known shipwrecks and vessel disappearances over the last three years. Insurance records show that more than a dozen commercial vessels sank either with all hands or without a trace. Of those, no less than ten were carrying either rare earth elements or related ore.”

He pointed to the map. “Seven of the ships were lost in the vicinity of South Africa, while the remaining vessels disappeared in the eastern Pacific.”

A

“Many of the ships were aged freighters, independently owned and probably underinsured through multiple carriers. I can only guess, but it’s likely no single insurer has taken a large enough hit to detect the pattern.”

“Why would someone go to the trouble of sinking or hijacking these ships,” Loren said, “if they can buy the minerals on the open market?”

Pitt shrugged. “The global supply is very tight. Perhaps someone is trying to control the reserves and manipulate the market.”

“So what is your plan to identify these people?” A

Pitt pointed to the clump of monazite. “That bit of ore came from a mine in western Australia called Mount Weld. The mine is being closed temporarily so they can expand production. We discovered that their last scheduled export shipment was loaded on an ore carrier last week bound for Long Beach.”

“You think she’s going to be hijacked?” Loren asked.

“She’s sailing on the same route where two other ships disappeared and the Tasmanian Star was attacked. It’s the last scheduled shipment of rare earth from Australia for at least six months. I’m willing to roll the dice and say she’s a pretty good target.”

“So that’s the cruise you invited me on?” A

Pitt nodded. “The freighter is owned by a shipping line whose CEO happens to be friends with Vice President Sandecker. He’s made arrangements for us and a Coast Guard SWAT team to rendezvous with the ship south of Hawaii.”

“Is that enough protection?” Loren’s concern for her husband was evident in her violet eyes.

“We’re not going up against a warship. Plus, I’ll be in constant communications with Rudi at headquarters if we need any extra muscle.” He turned to A

A

Pitt smiled at the two attractive women and raised his wineglass. “That would be a sight any lonely sailor would welcome.”

30

VIEWED FROM THE AIR, THE DENSE JUNGLE SPREAD across the horizon like a lumpy green carpet. Only the occasional wisp of smoke or a quick glimpse of a shack in a clearing gave any sign that human life existed beneath the foliage.

Though the helicopter had departed Panama City’s Tocumen International Airport just a few minutes earlier, the roar of its turbine was already grating on Pablo’s nerves. He gazed ahead and spotted the sprawling green waters of Gatun Lake, a massive body of water formed during the construction of the Panama Canal. Their destination was close.

The pilot banked the chopper and followed the eastern shore of the lake, passing several large islands known for their assortment of primates. A narrow peninsula rose up ahead, and he guided the helicopter back over the jungle, gradually reducing speed. As he reached the center of the landmass, the pilot put the craft into a hover.

Pablo gazed at the treetops below—and noticed them move. The trees weren’t swaying from the chopper’s rotor wash, but instead began to spread apart. A seam appeared in the foliage, and it grew into a large square opening with a helicopter landing pad marked with lights and a reflective white circle.

The pilot centered the helicopter and gently dropped onto the pad. The moment the pilot cut the power, Pablo tore off his headphones and climbed out.

Once beyond reach of the twirling rotor, he glanced up as the artificially landscaped roof closed overhead. The hydraulically powered cover was a stand-alone structure built on pilings in a jungle clearing. Two armed men in fatigues operated the controls from a panel box at the side.

As the sky disappeared, a golf cart emerged from the surrounding jungle and pulled to a stop in front of Pablo.

“El Jefe awaits,” the driver said with the hint of a Swedish accent. Out of place in the Panamanian jungle, he was a husky blond man with pale skin and ice blue eyes. He wore a nondescript Army officer’s uniform and a holstered Beretta.

The two men stared at each other with a mix of respect and disdain. Both employed as hired muscle, they observed a cold, formal truce. “Good day to you, too, Johansson,” Pablo said. “And, yes, I had a very enjoyable flight, thank you.”